


An Old Problem

by umbrafix



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, Genderswap, Girl!Morse, Morse is secretly a girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 06:10:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5817130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thursday thinks there's something wrong with his bagman. Morse gets more and more defensive as he gets more suspicious. And Thursday just won't let the puzzle drop...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I read another fantastic Morse-as-a-girl story recently, 'Athena Wept' by Tashilover, and I was like - yes, I've been longing to write Morse as a girl too! I love that someone else felt the same way!
> 
> This fic may be taking some liberties, because I’ve no idea if there would have been a medical check on joining the force in the 60's. Let's assume Morse found a way around it...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You didn’t tell me you got injured!” Thursday said, upon confirming there was a swathe of bandages wrapped around Morse’s upper chest. “What happened?”

Thursday might never have known. As it was, Morse had been his bagman for well over a year before he found out through sheer chance. And God, some secrets didn’t half knock you sideways.

 

They’d been chasing a suspect on foot, and Thursday’s predominant thought had been that he was too old for this sort of thing. He was doing better than Strange though, who was lagging far behind them. Morse had pulled slightly ahead, and something about the way he moved reminded Fred of a gun dog of some kind – a pointer maybe. Slightly lanky, but incredibly graceful in motion. And bloody fast. Then the lad clipped the edge of a railing going round a corner, and his shirt was caught – spraying buttons everywhere as it pulled open. Morse paid it no heed, of course, catching the flapping edges and pulling them together with a clenched fist, running on with Thursday hard on his heels.

 

The suspect ran into an alley, and as they whipped round the corner after Thursday breathed an internal sigh of relief at discovering it was a dead end. Now to see if the bastard would turn nasty. Dropping the bag he’d picked up on the way – the fool probably could have escaped if he hadn’t stopped for it – the man backed up against the wall and showed no signs of a fight. Thursday took advantage of the moment to bend forward slightly, hands on the tops of his thighs, and catch his breath. Surprisingly, Morse made no move to arrest the man, even though the lad wasn’t even breathing hard. He just stood guard, watching the suspect, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

 

Well then. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Larson, for the theft of…” Thursday moved forward and cuffed him. Strange arrived behind them, wheezing for breath like a dying engine. Needed to get in shape, that one, Thursday thought, forgetting his own state a moment ago. “Here, Strange, take Mr. Larson back to the station. He won’t give you any trouble, will you Mr. Larson.” Thursday glared at the man menacingly as he said the last.

 

Having dispatched Strange with the suspect, Fred turned back to his bagman. Morse was staring distractedly out into space. “Here now, what’s the matter with you?”

 

“Hmm?” Morse turned his head sharply towards him. The lad blinked, and focused intently on Thursday. “Sorry, sir. I was thinking about the case.”

 

“Looked more like you were away with the fairies.” But Thursday knew better than to doubt Morse’s instincts by now. “What about it?”

 

“I think the brother might have been involved. The route Mr Larson took went past the show shop, sir, do you remember? But that added time onto this journey for no reason.”

 

“Worth looking into. We’ll get him in for questioning. Grab the evidence then, and we’ll be back to the station.” Thursday nodded towards the bag on the ground.

 

“Oh, yes, of course, sir.” Morse carefully uncrossed his arms and held the front of his shirt closed with long fingers as he moved to pick up the bag with his other hand. Thursday was amused – he’d never known a lad quite so self-conscious as Morse. It was an unfortunate running joke at the station that Morse would never get laid if he was too shy to show any skin.

 

It wasn’t too far to the Jag, and the sun was shining, so Thursday didn’t mind the walk. “Here,” he said as they got to it. “You drive.” And he chucked the keys in Morse’s direction.

 

Morse didn’t let go of the bag, of course, he was a good police officer. No, he let go of his shirt, and despite being tucked in at the bottom it still gaped open in the middle. Thursday stopped mid-stride, and moved towards him.

 

“You didn’t tell me you got injured!” Thursday said, upon confirming there was a swathe of bandages wrapped around Morse’s upper chest. “What happened?”

 

Morse went absolutely still. For the longest moment, it was as though he was completely frozen, and Thursday could have sworn he saw fear flash in the lad’s eyes. Then the hand now holding the keys whipped up, and pulled his shirt closed again, clutching it tightly.

 

“It’s nothing, sir,” Morse said tersely, and moved to put the evidence in the back of the car.

 

“Nothing my arse!” Thursday followed him around to the other side of the car. “Have you seen a doctor?”

 

“Yes.” Morse looked defiant. “I have.”

 

“DeBryn?” Morse hesitated, but nodded. Which rather knocked the wind out of Fred’s sails – the lad wouldn’t lie, and if DeBryn had okayed it…

 

“And he said it was alright for you to be running around with it?”

 

“Yes, sir.” Great, now the lad was fully on the defensive. “It’s just a bit of support.”

 

“Well,” grumbled Thursday, but left it at that. Support for what, though, he wondered later – bit high for a busted rib.

 

* * *

 

 

It was still nagging at him a couple of days later, when he next saw the pathologist.

 

“This injury of Morse’s, when did it happen?” Thursday asked.

 

“Injury?” Debryn said absently, poking around the abdomen of their victim. After a moment he looked up and focused on Thursday’s face. “He’s not been to see me, I didn’t know he’d been hurt.”

 

Hah, Thursday wanted to crow, except that it was unlike Morse to be outright dishonest. Lies of omission, yes - the lad would rather keel over than admit to any problems - but lying to Fred’s face?

 

“I asked him, and he said he’d seen a doctor about it.” Thursday said slowly. “Said you knew.”

 

“Afraid not. Do send him down though, I’m happy to take a look at him. What happened?”

 

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Something with his chest. He was all bandaged up.”

 

And if Thursday hadn’t been looking at DeBryn’s face right then, he’d have missed the brief expression of guilt and ‘oh shit’ that skimmed across his features. “Maybe he mentioned something,” Voice too casual. Lying. “Send him down anyway, I’ll check him out for you.”

 

“Alright.” What the hell was going on? And what was wrong with Morse?

 

* * *

 

 

“I spoke to DeBryn about the autopsy.”

 

Morse was in Thursday’s office, perched on the corner of the desk, all alight with wild theories as usual. “And?”

 

“And, he said you hadn’t been to see him about any injury.”

 

It took a few seconds, as Morse’s train of thought derailed and his brain scrambled to switch tracks, but Fred saw the same ‘oh shit’ expression cross his face as had been on DeBryn’s.

 

“Now then,” said Thursday very mildly, “why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

 

Morse swallowed hard. Thursday leaned back in his chair, and gave him the eye. He’d had a long and successful career as a detective, and he knew how to break someone with a stare.

 

“It’s an old problem,” Morse finally said. “Very old. I told Debryn about it months ago.” Fred stayed silent. “It’s really not an issue sir, it doesn’t interfere with my job.”

 

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

 

“It’s private,” Morse said shortly, temper flaring.

 

And what the bloody hell did that mean. “Morse-“

 

“Why can’t you just leave it alone?” Thursday sat back, stunned, at the sudden wild tone of Morse’s voice and the slight shine to his eyes which hinted at gathering tears. Awkward silence fell between them as Fred rallied his thoughts. Clearly he’d stumbled upon something far more sensitive than he’d thought. Was the lad disfigured? Unfit for service in some way? Was that why he never took his shirt off in front of the others?

 

“It’s my job to make sure you’re alright,” Fred said finally. “You’ve never mentioned anything before, so I have a right to be concerned. You say it doesn’t affect your job, but how can I know that? What if something happened, and your old injury flared up on the job?”

 

“It won’t,” Morse snapped. He paused, and took a deep breath. “If you’re unwilling to work with me, then I can tender my letter of resignation-“

 

“Whoa, lad, there’s no need for that!” Thursday had pushed Morse in the hope of making him talk, but it seemed that they’ve reached a cliff edge he hadn’t known existed. He tapped his fingers on the table, then jerked his head towards the door. “Go on then, back to work with you.”

 

Morse hesitated for a fraction of a second, then practically bolted out of the door.

  

* * *

 

 

Thursday might _still_ never have known, except that Morse got injured (of course he did, he was _Morse_ ) and insisted on being taken to Dr DeBryn again rather than the hospital.

 

“Come on lad, the hospital can fix you up much better.”

 

But he was stubborn, _too_ stubborn – “It’s really not that bad, sir” - and DeBryn was probably closer. If the nothing else the doctor might have better luck at persuading Morse.

 

Except that the doctor didn’t even try and persuade Morse.

 

Except that, suddenly oblivious to Thursday’s distant presence when presented with a bleeding patient, Debryn had Morse’s shirt off and the lad back on the table in less than a minute.

 

Except that Morse, with the bandage across his chest half sliced off by the knife which had scored across his ribs, was abruptly revealed to definitely not be a _lad_.

 

The wound actually didn’t look that bad, thought a small part of Thursday’s mind, it had just bled a fair bit. The rest of his brain was still stuck on _breasts_. He must have made some sort of noise, because both Morse and DeBryn whipped their heads round in synchrony to stare at him.

 

“I’ll just be over here then,” said Thursday weakly, and went to sit down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if there will be any more to this, but it was fun to write. I'm still trying to work out what in Morse's past would have him so determined to pretend to be a man.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thursday and Morse go to the pub, and Thursday and DeBryn have a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid confusion - Morse is a girl who thinks of herself as a girl, but for thus far undisclosed reasons is very committed to keeping that a secret and pretending to be a man.

Thursday hadn’t noticed. How had he not noticed? He was a detective, for Christ’s sake, trained to observe things that other people missed, good at reading people. He  _knew_  Morse, and for all that the lad didn’t go around spilling his life’s story to all and sundry, Thursday had felt he had a pretty solid grasp of who he was.

 

Apparently not though. Apparently Thursday didn’t know who  _she_  was at all.

 

How could he have missed something like this?

 

He started fixedly at the wall, and listened with half an ear to DeBryn’s mutterings off to the side. What on earth would make Morse keep a secret like this? It couldn’t have been just to get on the Force – you could get policewomen nowadays. It was probably harder to advance through the ranks, but even so. Thursday had turned up at Morse’s home before, and he’d still been, well, Morse, even in the middle of the night. The girl must live in disguise full time. Jesus.

 

Everything else aside, that had to be damned uncomfortable. Thursday shut off that line of thought immediately – he was too old and too married to blush at the thought of his bagman.

 

He was pulled out of his musings by a presence hovering at the edge of his vision; he turned to see Morse all buttoned up and ready to go. The jacket hid the bloodstain on his shirt, and Morse had his hands thrust into his pockets, _her_ pockets – probably to keep from fidgeting.

 

You would never have known.

 

Morse had beautiful features, of course, Thursday had thought that about him before. Her. Chiseled cheekbones, large expressive eyes, lips which always looked like the lad had been biting them. Slightly unfair on a man, but it had worked on Morse – a elegant fit for his slight snobbery. Beautiful, yes, and for all that it was an odd word to apply to a lad, Thursday hadn’t ever thought Morse overtly feminine.

 

He only realized he was staring when Morse cleared her throat – no Adam’s apple, of course, but then how often did one think to check for that? Thursday looked past Morse and saw DeBryn glaring at him fiercely in the background. He gave a brief glare back - it was good to know the pathologist was looking out for her but she hardly needed protecting from  _Thursday_.

 

He pulled himself together. “Right then,” he said numbly. “Pub?”

 

He bought Morse her usual ale without thinking twice about it, and they found a table in a corner, a bit quieter than most. As they sat down and she started playing with her glass, he suddenly wondered if she would have preferred something different. A shandy. Wine. Gin and tonic. She’d been a teetotaler when they met, after all, perhaps she’d only stuck with drinking ale to be seen as one of the lads?

 

Thursday took a large gulp of his own drink. Morse was a girl. His bagman was a bagwoman. Should he bring it up? Ignore it utterly, and pretend he’d never seen what he’d seen? Though perhaps that would be worse – Morse was anxiously looking like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Judging by her expression, less of a shoe and more of an anvil.

 

“So,” started Thursday gamely. “Morse.” He paused, and looked at Morse, who nodded confirmation without looking up from her glass. “Endeavour? No, can’t be.” But Morse nodded again. “Really?” This time she shrugged, and her eyes flicked up to meet his for a second. Thursday had seen many expressions on Morse – she certainly didn’t have much of a poker face – but seeing one of such trepidation because of  _him_ …

 

“Morse. Endeavour. I’m not going to tell anyone if you don’t want me to, lad.” The ‘lad’ came out automatically, but Morse didn’t seem to mind. She straightened out of her slouch a little, and took a slow sip of her ale. “I’m just a bit… confused. Don’t understand why you’d live like this.” Morse shrugged again, and they sat for a while without speaking. Silence had never really felt awkward with Morse before – it was one of the things he liked about her – but this time it did.

 

Half a pint later, Morse suddenly said “I’m not sure I’d be very good at being… any other way.”

 

Thursday could feel himself developing a headache, and drank to give himself time to think what to say. “You are what you are, Morse, it’s not a case of being good at it or not?” Although, God’s truth, he certainly couldn’t see Morse caring about dresses, or makeup, or boys, so if that was what Morse associated with being a woman then he could see her point. “When did you start…?“ he waved a hand in her general direction, indicating her clothes. “When you came to Oxford? When you joined the police?”

 

“No. I don’t…” Morse trailed off. She looked away. Her fingers tapped rhythms on the table. He wondered if she’d ever played an instrument as well as singing. Singing – God, her voice. Certainly it was a little higher than most men’s, a little less rough. Was it faked? Did she have to make an effort every time she opened her mouth? “Another?” She stood up, and grabbed his glass.

 

When she returned, he took his drink gratefully and said, “Only time I’ve ever seen you volunteer to buy a round. I’ll have to ask you awkward questions more often.” He smiled gently so that she’d know he was joking.  After a minute’s silence, he added, “You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to, lad.”

 

“I-“ she started, and then paused to look out the window. “I’d rather not talk about it, sir.”

 

“Alright then,” Fred said affably. “Anything I need to know, as your DI?”

 

She shook her head, and he left it at that. Morse was still Morse. Genius, stubborn, and aggravating as all hell sometimes. Thursday hadn’t been as happy to work with anyone in years.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The fact that DeBryn knew burned away at the back of Thursday’s brain until finally he bit the bullet and chased the man down a few weeks later.

 

“I don’t have any bodies for you, Inspector. Or should I say, you’ve had none for me.”

 

Thursday came to a halt in the middle of the mortuary, and uneasily rocked back and forth on his heels. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. Guilty.

 

“Ah. Come about something else, have you?” Thursday pursed his lips together. “I’ve got a bottle of brandy in my office.”

 

DeBryn shut the door firmly behind them, and sat behind his desk. The man even sat tidily, Thursday thought, not like Morse with her sprawling slouch.

 

Morse, who had trusted DeBryn with this secret but not Thursday.

 

“How long have you known?”

 

“Since the stabbing at the Bodleian. Nasty slash in the side, he needed stitches.” Thursday had been reminding himself to refer to Morse as ‘he’ at every given opportunity, but this was one conversation where he’d hoped to dispense with it.

 

“Stitches in the side, yes. Not that high up,” Thursday retorted.

 

“Decided to come clean, I suppose.” DeBryn glanced at Thursday over his glasses. “Perhaps he needed to tell someone.”

 

Thursday’s hands instantly clenched into fists. It was ridiculous for him to feel this possessive over Morse, over Morse’s secrets. But he did.

 

“I’m glad he had someone,” Thursday said eventually, and he was proud that his voice was even. “How long has he-“

 

“Surely that would be for him to say, Inspector.” DeBryn sounded disapproving. Bastard. But then he was only doing the decent thing – and Morse would be furious if she knew Thursday was here.

 

“I just want to know that sh-he’s alright,” Thursday said wearily.

 

“Hmm.” DeBryn retrieved the promised bottle of brandy, and poured them both a measure. “Physically or psychologically,” he asked as they picked up their glasses.

 

“Both. I mean – he seems fine, haring off all over the place between being stabbed and shot and beaten.” There had been plenty of moments of not being so fine in there, of course. And Thursday had been there for almost all of them, scraping the girl’s body and soul off the floor.

 

“Hmm.” Thursday waited, and drank his brandy. “Entirely hypothetically speaking,” the pathologist said slowly, “keeping secrets takes a toll on both body and mind. Especially when it’s for complex reasons. It might make it difficult to get close to people and rely on them. One might develop something of a mask. Such a person might find it hard to trust, and impossible to ask for help.”

 

Well, and that was Morse in a nutshell.

 

Thursday thought of the other thing he’d really wanted to ask. Because he’d been wondering, since that day in the pub with Morse, if maybe she wanted the chance to be a girl sometimes, to stop the pretense and not have to hide.

 

“And… if someone knew. Should they act as if they don’t, or should they let that person be more… themself. Just sometimes, if there was no one else around.”

 

DeBryn’s sharp eyes studied him. “I don’t know enough of our hypothetical case to know whether that person would wish to be more  _themself_ , and really the only way to know would be to ask.”

 

Thursday nodded, not really having learned anything he hadn’t known coming in. He put down the glass and stood. “Thank you, doctor.”

 

“It’s a very fragile trust, between you and Morse right now.” DeBryn added quietly. “To be honest, it’s a miracle he hasn’t bolted for the hills. Don’t break it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm still not really sure where I'm going with this, but it's still fun :)


End file.
